Lost Kings Rule Alone
by sodafly
Summary: Sherlock had let them believe that he was dead for over a year; so when he finally returns to London in search of John, he realises that a year really is a long time for some people.


"Sherlock, we have talked about this, we agreed."

"No, you demanded and I had no choice, there was no 'agreement' on this situation."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock sternly, meeting his glare with another mastered one of his own. They were gathered in one of the rooms of their large family home, a south facing room with French doors leading out onto the garden. The sun served as the only light in the room, illuminating the red carpet and neatly wallpapered walls, mostly covered by towering bookcases the shelves of which were crammed with books. Sherlock had been pacing, crossing the room in three long strides, swivelling on the heel of his foot and repeating before finally stopping at the window. Mycroft observed from his position sat in one of the brown armchairs, legs crossed at the ankle with his umbrella lent against the arm rest.

He knew Sherlock hated it, being trapped once again in the home of his youth when he wanted to be back in his own apartment in Baker Street, stuck with their suffocating mother and the shadows of their unusual childhood hiding in every nook and cranny. Mycroft knew Sherlock had spent the majority of his time in this room; he could tell by the violin sat in the adjacent chair, the dishes sat on the window sill along with glass flasks of various liquids, the black burns on the carpet and of course the growing mess that was typical of his younger brother. But if anything was not evidence enough, then the photo frame-that held a photograph of Mycroft and Sherlock back when they were children- slammed face down on the shelf so that the picture could not be seen was also a tell tale sign.

"A year, Mycroft, a year I've been stuck here in this godforsaken country home. I wish to return to London, to my flat, to my work." Sherlock didn't say anything about returning to John, but the unsaid statement rang clearer than any of the words which were spoken. Sherlock looked out across the garden, finger's teasing against the thin curtains. A year, two months and 5 days ago Mycroft had snatched him up, sweeping him away out into the countryside right under John's unaware nose. It was to keep him safe; apparently it was better the let John and the rest of the world believe he was dead than to continue what he had started. Apparently that is.

Mycroft sighed, rising from his chair. He could stand no longer of this trivial matter they had argued over time and time again. Sherlock didn't turn, didn't move a single muscle as Mycroft strode towards the doorway, pausing mid step and resting his hand upon the door frame.

"It's not just for your own good Sherlock, it's for everyone's...a year is a very long time for some people." Sherlock said nothing, just downcast his eyes and listened to the sound of Mycroft's footsteps retreating down the hall, not bothering to close the door behind him.

"Come now Sherlock dear, you know your brother only means you well, he just has too much of his father in him to be understanding about it." Sherlock regarded his mother as she handed him a cup of tea. His mother was probably the only family member Sherlock had ever got along with, they had a mutual understanding and her presence, although suffocating and clingy, was the only bearable thing about being caged in this insurable environment.

"No, Mycroft is controlling. He should stop concerning himself with me and my life and start concerning himself with the fact that he has gained four pounds over the last month." Sherlock said bitterly after sipping at his tea which was too milky and didn't have enough sugar. Sherlock's mother tutted, sitting elegantly on the edge of arm chair parallel to him.

"Don't be like that, you know that he finds that subject sensitive. " She exhaled, nursing her own cup of tea in long fingers that Sherlock had inherited from her. "As said, he has too much of his father in him, forever trying to control the uncontrollable souls like you and I. Then again, I suppose your father would say that you have too much of me in you; impulsive and forever doing the opposite to what everyone else wants you to do."

Sherlock smiled a tiny smile at that, looking away from his mother to scan his eyes around the living room. It was a large room, open with wide windows looking over the driveway and olive paint on the walls. Sherlock's mother was keen on sharing her memories and the walls, coffee table and mantle piece over the fire were covered in framed photographs. He stared at those ever present ghosts. Pictures of him as a child; all curls and pink lipped with dirt smeared on his fingers or face. Pictures of Mycroft as a child; all neat and straight backed even back then. Pictures of his large extended family, school photos, old photos in black and white of his mother as a young woman; even a solitary picture of his late father remained staring coldly at him through the glass with disapproving eyes and stern features.

But it was none of these that Sherlock found himself constantly staring at. It was the picture sat on the mantel piece, framed in a brown wooden frame to match the clock it sat besides that was forever catching his eye. In it was Sherlock and besides him...was John. It was one of those sneaked shots his mother was famous for. They sat in a pair of armchairs positioned next to each other; neither of them was looking into the camera but straight at each other. Sherlock sat, legs folded beneath him with his violin nestled upon his lap, the bow of which lay across his open palm. John was looking at him sat with a straight back and arms lazing upon the armrests, a large smile upon his face at whatever Sherlock had just said. No one could see the tiny, secret smile of affection upon Sherlock's frozen lips unless they were to look closely enough. Sherlock could remember that day, a day two years ago when his mother had invited them to the family home in order to finally meet the man Sherlock had grown so attached to. John's enthusiasm had mirrored Sherlock's apathy that day.

It was the only trace of John in this house, but all it took was a single piece of evidence to say that all those memories where not something of his imagination to fill Sherlock with a sense of longing. He wanted John; he wanted his one and only true companion back at his side instead of hundreds of miles away. He wondered what John was doing this very second; probably dealing with fussy patients in the doctor's practice who were just being paranoid about their ear ache or their sore throat. He wondered if John was still in Baker Street, watching bad television alone unless Mrs Hudson joined him out of sympathy. He wondered if John had kept his case books, his arm chair... he sometimes wondered with a sting of jealously if someone had replaced him in his bed. Sherlock wondered if John had continued his work... he doubted it. But the weakest and most frequently occurring thought was where or not John was thinking about him, or whether he had been forgotten. He couldn't have been forgotten, he knew John wasn't like that...but it was Sherlock's only insecurity.

Sherlock snapped out of his trance at the touch of his mother's gentle hand upon his knee. He snapped his head around to regard her, his eyes always soft when looking upon her gracefully aged face. She had a tiny, almost sad smile on her face as she moved from her chair to lean over him. Her hand moved from his knee to cup his cheek in her palm as the other mused his hair with motherly affection.

"I remember that day, when you bought dear John here despite the fact you didn't want to." She said it so quietly, her eyes almost tearful as she stroked his cheek. "I remember that day simply because you looked so happy Sherlock. You looked so bright, so delighted...you may not show it but a mother always knows when her baby boy is overjoyed."

"I have never seen you so happy Sherlock and it breaks my heart to see you like this. It breaks my heart to know that being stuck here without him is making you so upset and I feel like there is nothing I can do to make you feel better." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself. There was nothing he could say, he didn't know how to comfort, he didn't know how to stop those tears perched on the lower rims of his mother's eyes and it pained him that he couldn't. His mother sunk onto the arm rest, her hands moving to Sherlock's shoulders.

"But there is nothing I can do is there. You have always been your own man Sherlock and although your brother will say otherwise...you must do what you feel is right." She sniffed, smiling fondly before sobbing a tiny bubble of laughter from her throat.

"By God, there is too much of me in you Sherlock, and I know that you won't be happy until you do what that very misunderstood mind of yours tells .But I cannot bring myself to lie to you and he may not be the same man you left behind"

Sherlock was almost nervous as he sat in the waiting room of the doctor's practise. No, that gnawing feeling in his stomach was definitely nervousness, however alien the feeling may be he could not deny it. The room was just a little too warm for his liking and the smell a mixture of both fresh and sterile, the walls a subtle lemon colour with tall indoor plants dotted here and there between the slimly padded chairs. He watched the pouring rain dribble down the small window panes, drumming his fingers on the wooden arm rest as he pressed his knuckles on the other hand against his lips. His eyes stared intensely at the bleach stain on the carpet, probably from where some patient had thrown up.

To be totally honest he hadn't planned this far. What would he say? What would he do? Situation like this were not his forte...in fact, situations like this didn't happen in real life. Friends who are meant to be dead do not pop into work to say 'hello' and 'so let's start up from where we finished'. But then again, John knew that Sherlock had never led a 'real life'. But it was only when Sherlock heard that fake name he had used as his disguise buzz through the intercom did he reflect on what his mother had said.

' _I cannot bring myself to lie to you and he may not be the same man you left behind'_

What if John had changed? What if he had been forgotten just as Sherlock feared? No, John wouldn't forget, he can't have, it was him, Sherlock Holmes who changed him. It was Sherlock Holmes that introduced him to the war, who had shown him the shadows of life that no one ever saw. What would John have done if it not for him, limping around with a psychosomatic limp and longing for the thrill of the battlefield. This was what Sherlock told himself as he sat there, frozen with his only doubt, the thought almost bitter in its desperation.

John's voice crackled through the intercom again, calling for his fake name, but calling for him nonetheless. However the voice didn't really sound like John's. Sherlock rose from his seat, pulling himself together as he navigated his way through the hall. His heart was racing, the rhythmic thud hammering against his temple as blood coursed through his veins like a red hot snake. He looked at the door in front of him coldly. John sat on the other side, waiting for him, and the thought made him stop, hand clammy on the door handle. But he remembers, he is Sherlock Holmes, he did not hesitate and pushed the door open.

John didn't look up straight away; he was looking down at the paper work in his hands. Sherlock stilled in the doorway, vaguely aware of the door closing behind him. A year since he had seen that face in the flesh and there is was, right before him, not yet aware of his presence. The shock stunted him so much that all he could do was look upon that face, not deduce the side effects of his absence, just stand and watch. The heart strings he convinced himself had did not have tugged sharply, making him want to vomit and suddenly he was finding it hard to breath.

Obviously attracted by the prolonged silence, John finally looked up to see if his patient had arrived and if he was okay, to offer him a seat and perhaps some water before finding out what was wrong. He froze. He blinked. His face paled. To look up and find the eyes of a friend once lost staring back at him with the same intensity that was burnt into his memory was enough to stop his heart from beating. They stared at each other, no one moving, no one talking, just taking the sight of the other in. The ghost and the man reunited once more.

"John." The name dropped from Sherlock's tongue like lead, a low, deep thud like the first nail being driven into his metaphorical coffin. Sherlock supposed there had been no funeral for him, after all, his body was never found and it wasn't as if a lot of people would turn up. John gasped with surprise, realising that what he saw before him was not a hallucination. He stuttered uncontrollably for a moment, blinking as his hands refused to stay still. It took longer than expected for John to regain his composure, his mouth opening and closing momentary before he finally settled upon the words.

"Sherlock, Sherlock...you, what, you're-"

"I'm meant to be dead, I know, but evidently I am not" He could have said something a little less...blunt, but as was his nature he could not stop the words before they fled his vocal chords. John made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and spat something between a huff and a breathy laugh from between his lips. Sherlock remain still, eyes glancing around as his mind regained its function. He saw the evidence; he saw it plain and clear as daylight. Jealously surged through his veins like a shot injected into his arm, his eyes twitching narrower as his limbs coiled tenser than before. But what did he expect; he had gone for a year with no indication of returning. Curse Mycroft and his interference. There was a silence, not quite awkward, not quite comfortable; more a desperate kind of silence, both screaming wordlessly at each other but those silent cries of angry could be heard so deafening in their ears than they ever would be spoken.

John rose from his seat, looking a little shaky. Sherlock watched him. In the fleeting thought Sherlock wanted to close the distance between them and sweep the other into his arms like he used to only a year ago. But he knew that the action was in the past and that it had no place in the present.

John takes leave from the practise; whispering a hushed conversation with the secretary, leaning so close to her so that Sherlock couldn't hear what was being said. Sherlock didn't know if he should feel offended or not, but then considered that he no longer had the right to be.

John walked a little too fast up the street, not yet wanting to stand at Sherlock's side. The constant fidgeting indicated the riot of emotion storming in John's head, the anger, the confusion, the happiness, everything. For once it was Sherlock following John around the streets of London and a part of him knew that he would follow John wherever the doctor chose to lead him. A part of him always had known. Eventually John slowed, allowing Sherlock to fall into step besides him. It was easy, like the missing jigsaw piece being slotted into place. They did not say a word as they walk, but the fleeting glances at one enough said all that needed to be said.

'_Why did you leave? You're meant to be dead.' _

'_I had to; I didn't want to, but I had to'_

'_I don't understand' _

'_I didn't think you would.' _

Nostalgia was strong when they finally approached Baker Street. Of course John had kept the flat; it was a nice flat and John was sentimental. Sherlock wondered if it was still the same inside...he doubted it. Walking up the quiet street was both alien and familiar to Sherlock and both men slowed in their strides. Sherlock paused when they approached the big black door with the golden numbers standing proudly upon it. He could remember shaking John's hand the first time they had stood here and the moment flash before his eyes. Standing here once again, going through the door way, walking slowly up the steps just as he had done so many times before, Sherlock wouldn't admit that he was feeling more than a little overwhelmed; like the bottom of his stomach had dropped away and all the blood in his body was gushing out of it. They were quiet, careful not to alert Mrs Hudson of their presence. Sherlock would deal with each reunion one at a time.

The flat itself hadn't changed much if you were to only look at the surface. The wallpaper was the same, the flooring was the same, most of the furniture remained in its original place. But it was tidier, books neatly stacked, tables cleared of paper and experiments, the walls are bare of crime maps and bullet holes. Sherlock's nose twitches; he can smell a plug in air freshener, emitting the scent of mowed grass. He can see the evidence once again; the romantic novels, the plants on the window sill, the hand moisturiser on the coffee table alongside magazines and a hairbrush with slim strands of curling blond hair within its teeth. It was guaranteed that the fridge would be stocked with food and absent of body parts. This place, this place was not the home he had once made.

John disappeared into the kitchen and the sound of the kettle boiling nudged against Sherlock's ears. Taking the moment of mild solitude; Sherlock looked around again. He needed to find a different kind of evidence, he need to find the evidence that he had once been here. His armchair still remained, looking untouched as if no one had sat in it or that it was sat in rarely; obviously old habits die hard. Sherlock took his place back in his chair, fingers moving into a steeple as he glanced around. The bookcase where his case files once lay was filled with other, generic novels that held little interest, but on the bottom shelf laid a large, long box with SH marked on the corner in chunky black marker. So John had hidden him away, locked away in a box that was probably only opened when he was feeling sentimental. Sherlock looked around again. His knife was removed from the mantel piece, along with his books and paintings. But there was something that caught his eye.

It was that photo again, that same bloody photo from over the fireplace in his mother's home. The one of Sherlock and John in the armchairs, both unaware, both...happy. It hung on its own in a tiny frame upon the wall, lost within the jungle of other framed photographs, so much smaller than them that it could have easily been over looked. He wondered if John ever looked at that photo and thought all the thoughts that Sherlock did. Feeling hurt like a wounded lion, Sherlock bought his knees up to his chest, tucking his feet up underneath him and resting his hands upon his knees, silver eyes downcast and sombre.

When John returned from the kitchen, holding two stripy mugs of tea in his hands, he paused mid step taking in the strange yet familiar sight of Sherlock curled into his armchair. The sight looked out of place amongst the tidiness. A bit like how Sherlock's coat suddenly looked odd hung upon the hanger next to John's and an unfamiliar grey coat that was tailored to be fitting. John handed the mug of tea over to Sherlock, his eyes saying

'_Things have changed Sherlock' _

'_I can see that'_ was what Sherlock's eyes said in return. John took a seat in the chair opposite. The sound of traffic outside and the slurping of tea was the only thing that broke their silence. Sherlock stared at the framed photograph on the coffee table near John. It was of a young woman with blonde curls and soft features. Her eyes stared back at Sherlock, bright and happy, and reminding Sherlock that he no longer had a place here.

"What's her name then?" Sherlock asked, nodding in the direction of the picture on the coffee table. He tried to keep his voice emotionless, but even he could hear the razor sharp edge that cut his words. John glanced at the photo before dropping his gaze to look at the cup of tea in his hands. It seemed that he could not bare to look Sherlock in the eyes, afraid of what they would be saying.

"Mary; Mark Morstan...well Marry Watson now." John said with a of hint of fondness that made the green fire of envy burn a little bright in Sherlock's heart. He wondered if John still spoke of him in that affectionate tone. No, he wouldn't anymore.

"I met her shortly after..." John trailed off, but Sherlock knew what he meant. Was he really so easily replaced? Sherlock finally managed to catch John's gaze.

'_But what about me?' _

'_I thought you were dead.' _

"Then I hope your marriage is a long and pleasant one." The words were forced yet genuine. Sherlock wished only for John's happiness and if that did not involve him then so be it. They sipped their ears; the silent questioning and screaming still ringing loud and clear.

'_I really am sorry John' _

'_I believe you' _

"How did you know about Mary; you obviously knew before you asked, I know you Sherlock."

'_Give me a deduction for old times' sake old friend.' _Was what John really said, just to have a brief moment to hear a process he had heard so many times during their adventures. Sherlock raised his gaze to look directly at John, schooling himself to remain emotionless.

"The ring on your finger is an obvious sign. At first I believe it to be Sarah bit seeing as her name was no longer on the list of doctor's working at the practise indicated she had left and was thus no longer a part of your life. The jumper you were wearing when I walked in obviously wasn't picked by you, you like patterned jumpers where as this one is plain suggesting that someone picked it for you. Since you don't have a close relationship with your family members the evidence says partner, not a friend, friends don't tend to buy each other jumpers so a romantic attachment. There was a photo on your desk at the practise of a woman; so it must be a lady friend, as well as the clear traces of female inhabitancy in this very flat." Sherlock took a breath, clamping down on the emotion rising in his throat. John was silent, watching him intensely with that same glint of awe in his eyes.

"You haven't been married long; just come back from the honeymoon about a week ago. Evidence by the still clear yet slightly faded tan line from where your watch as been. Britain certainly isn't very sunny during the winter and you are not the type for tanning booths, not that you would wear a watch in a tanning booth even if you were. The fact that the wedding ring is still shinny and free of marks means it hasn't been worn long and the fact that you keep subconsciously playing with it means you are not used to having it there. You have lost some of your shape meaning you are getting used to idle life but haven't gained enough weight to suggest you are fully settled into married life. People always gain weight when they have married long enough. Also the 'congratulations on the wedding' themed cards on the window sill are more than enough of an indication that you have just married."

Sherlock finished, the joy of the deduction not as strong as normal. Mainly because Sherlock knew that he no longer had a place in John's life, he had moved on; was ready to be a good husband, to be a good father one day not for chasing criminals about at all hours of the night. John smiled a large yet sombre smile.

"Amazing, as always." Sherlock smiled at that, his ears pinking slightly at the sound of praise he always longed for from John.

' _Come with me John' _

' _You know I can't...not anymore' _

" _If only I hadn't disappeared, it would still just be you and me'_

'_I guess it was never meant to be.' _

Sherlock swallowed, placing the half empty cup of tea down on the table. He didn't think he could stand it any longer, sitting in this flat that was no longer his home, sitting near the man that was no longer his, casting a shadow over the perfect picture of married life. He rose to his feet, mechanically sticking his arm out to shake John's hand. John stared at him for a moment, before rising to his feet and clasping the hand in his own. The warmth of their palms made the situation suddenly a lot more real and Sherlock knew that he was going to walk out that door and never return.

"Well, I guess this is goodbye." Sherlock said stiffly.

"I guess it is, old friend." Said John with a hint of remorse. John's eyes looked into Sherlock's softly, smiling lightly.

'_Thank you Sherlock...for everything' _

' _I believe it is I who should be thanking you.' _

With that Sherlock let go, twist sharply on his heel and bounding with three large strides over to his coat, slipping into it with a flourish. Adjusting the scarf around his neck, Sherlock turned to make for the door. But he stopped, the door half open, his hand resting on the frame.

"Never forget me John." Sherlock whispered so quietly that the words almost faded away into the air.

"I don't think I ever could." John whispered back. Sherlock looked over his shoulder.

' _I love you John.' _ Said those large silver irises, but this time, John's eyes had no reply.

"Mary is ever such a nice girl, really lovely, John really did need a girl like her after all that happened." Sherlock hummed, hands laced under his chin as he gazed out the window. Mrs Hudson was sat on the sofa near him, talking animatedly whilst drinking her herbal soothers.

Mrs Hudson had almost had a heart attack and for a moment Sherlock was pretty sure he near enough killed her when she opened the door to see him stood there. He thought it was only fair to see Mrs Hudson, to let her know that he was okay, that he was here. Also the feeling of rejection was still stinging in his heart after the encounter with John and Sherlock knew that Mrs Hudson was always pleased to see him.

She had fussed over him and Sherlock had briefly explained, missing out the grimer details of the events. Mrs Hudson had appeared to be more interested in hearing about Sherlock's mother more than anything else. But now, Mrs Hudson was telling him about this Mary Morstan and Sherlock had drifted off back into his own world. He didn't want to think about John and his new wife; he didn't want to think about John at all. But he could not stop himself and it was eating away at him like a greedy tape worm coiled inside his intestines.

"I told you that a year is a long time for some people" Sherlock made no attempt to reply as he dumped his things in his new apartment in an organized chaos. It was another Victorian style flat near to London's West End; small and old fashioned with too steep stair and groaning pipes. He had the money this time; in reality he had always had the money. Sherlock had contemplated moving back to London and at first had decided not to. But the craving for his beloved city was too strong and he was back within a week. Besides Sherlock may have lost his ruler but he was yet to lose his kingdom.

Mycroft stood near the window, leaning against his umbrella and casting a long shadow onto the carpet. He watched his brother hurry back and forth, disappearing into one room and appearing again as he ferried his possessions about. There was no visible trace of Sherlock's sadness, of the ache in his side from where John had ripped apart the stitches sewing them together. The scar was long and deep from where they were no longer joined at the hip and Mycroft could sense that hurt.

"So what do you plan to do with yourself now?" Mycroft asked when Sherlock finally stopped. He stood tall amongst the maze of boxes and stared at his elder brother with harsh eyes. Mycroft could see the blame in them, that dark accusing glare that never fled Sherlock's irises.

"I will continue from where I left off." Sherlock stated as if the answer was obvious. Then again, the answer was in a way, Sherlock was addicted to his work. Sherlock drew a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, sticking one between his lips and lighting it, breathing in a satisfying drag. In his loneliness he had succumb to the seduction of nicotine once again.

"I survived fine without John once; I can do it again." In reality, both Sherlock and Mycroft knew that wasn't quite true

Sherlock only returned to Baker Street once after that reunion. Two mother afterwards; two months with John so near yet so far. It was a spur of the moment decision after smoking too many cigarettes and scrapping a solemn tune on his violin strings, looking down upon the peaceful street with a bite of hatred.

He was going to return to John, tell him to damn everyone else. What about him? What about Sherlock? He was going to tell John that he needed him, that he wanted him more than anything alive just as he should have said that day. He would scream every word left unspoken during the years they had known each other. He would do the impossible and drop his guard, leave himself naked and true for John to see what he really was.

But just as the cab pulled up outside of 221B Baker Street did Sherlock see John and his wife through the wind screen. They walked arm in arm, John's coat around the curly blonde's slim shoulder as she talked. John smile was the largest Sherlock had ever seen it. Sherlock knew he couldn't ruin it, so he told the cab driver to take him back to the West End.

It had been a picture perfect moment for the newlyweds and Sherlock did not belong in that photograph.

"Just you this time?" Lestrade said when Sherlock appeared at the crime scene. After a year and four months of boredom it was time for Sherlock to return to his work. Of course, he had met with Lestrade shortly after meeting with John again two months back, texting his phone with a friendly message from beyond the grave telling Lestrade to meet him. Lestrade had brought him a drink and Sherlock filled him in on all the details, noting the look of sympathy that had graced Lestrade's face when they first saw each other. Obviously the inspector had known all about John's change in lifestyle, he probably went to the wedding, an invite that served as a reminder of the good old days. Sherlock supposed that Lestrade was the only one he had now in this city, just like it had been before John arrived in his life. But Lestrade never would be the friend that John had been.

Ducking under the police tape Sherlock approached Lestrade with his hands inside his pockets. He had school his face to hide the hurt of being alone when they both knew that the last time Sherlock had done this, John had been at his side.

" Yes, it's just me." It was a simple enough statement, but consulting detective's tone said it all.

_John has moved o now, he won't be here anymore. _

_It's always be just me_

_Always be just Sherlock Holmes _

**A/n: This is a response to a prompt on tumblr of Sherlock returning after Reichenbach falls and finding out that John has moved on with his life (based off the song 'Someone like you' by Adele **


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